Page 23 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
“It’s been a long time since I hung out with anybody other than my shithead brothers,” Fallon says, leaning forward on the table. I barely manage to tear my eyes from Wyatt as he slides into his jacket. “What do you think about drinking more, telling each other secrets, and seeing if any of the old goddesses will answer our violent pleas?”
“You make a compelling argument,” I admit, not wanting to be too eager, not wanting to give in to this warm, wonderful fuzziness that’s enveloping me. I bring a spoonful of ice cream to my mouth, and shit, Wyatt’s right—this stuff is incredible.
“Say a prayer for me, Fern,” Wyatt calls from where he’s standing near the door. “Because these two are gonna make each other so muchworse.”
Fallon and I burst into laughter, the sound of it so loud and rich and perfect that I barely hear the door close behind him. But even sitting here with someone who could become the only close friend I’ve ever had, there’s still a part of me that goes a little cool in his absence.
As if I’ve already decided to let Wyatt Hayes help keep me warm.
Chapter 12
Wyatt
As I walk through the kitchen, the two of them stay at the table, cackling like old biddies. Honestly don’t think either one noticed or cared that I’m headed out. I pull the phone tree off its designated corner of the pinboard by the phone, moving it to front and center. Fallon has some calls to make later. Or, from the sounds of things, tomorrow morning.
Fern lifts her head to give me a long, steady look that tells me she’s got my girls under her watchful eye before tucking herself back in under my sister’s chair.
My girls.
I’ve got to get the hell out of here.
Now.
When I’ve got my feet solid on the front porch, I take a couple of shallow breaths, then one deep one. My mind’s gone topsy-turvy, and I need to get it right before I head out. When I don’t feel like I’m about to do something rash—like ask Alice Blythe to go steady with me after fifth period—I reach underneath the big bent-willow couch. There’s three Winchester rifles strapped underneath, just in case. I take one.
I flip the radio on as soon as I get back in the truck and switch over to the college station. It’s just about Johnny Cash hour over there, and I could use a little of the Man in Black. When the first few notes of “Ghost Riders in the Sky” play, I shut the radio off. I don’t need even a vague reference to the Hunt right now. It’s a long ride to the Stardust in silence, but I should keep my eyes on the road anyway.
The front office is dark when I pull up, and I’m glad to see Marion’s gone home. I pull a key from the butthole of one of Marion’s plastic flamingos and step inside. Before I touch a thing, I dial the proprietress herself at home.
She answers on the first ring. “Wyatt Hayes, what are you up to?”
It takes me a split second to remember that all members of the tribe have more advanced security than the rest of us before I turn and wave at the camera in the far corner. “Hey, wanted to tell you what Fallon spotted out in the woods.”
“Wanda just called,” she interjects.
“Fallon’s on the horn, then,” I reply.
“On the horn?” Marion sighs. “Criminy, Wyatt. Are you a ninety-year-old man, or what?”
I chuckle. “At least I’m not throwing ‘criminy’ around.”
“Touché, big dog,” she replies. We could go on all night, but Marion adds, “Don’t worry about us—we’re already on it.”
Relief floods me. Not that I expected anything different, but I always worry ’til we have our bases covered. “Glad to hear it. I’m here to pick up Alice Blythe’s things.”
“That’s what Wanda told me.” Sometimes that damn phone tree is a curse, not a blessing. “You can grab the keys. Thanks for not jimmying the lock.”
“No problem.” I laugh, but there’s not much joy in the sound. My feelings are all twisted up at the moment.
Marion hangs up without saying goodbye, which she’s done since we were in seventh grade. She saw it in an old movie or something and has done it ever since. Sometimes it’s a kindness. I grab the master key from behind Marion’s desk and lock the office up on my way out.
The air in the parking lot has the kind of deep, damp cold to it that seeps straight into your bones. A thick mist crawls out of the forest, which isn’t unusual this time of year, but neither is it welcome. I move slowly, scanning the woods for anything out of place. The neon sign in the parking lot pulses erratically, and I take a sidestep toward my truck.
When the High Courts walk, They disturb electricity—it’s one of the things that modern folk attribute to the dead that actually has a far more sinister origin. I grab the rifle from under my front seat and slide the old leather strap over my chest. Silver bullets won’t kill one of the High, but they’ll sting enough to let me escape.
I soften my footfalls as I approach Alice’s hotel room. The air is far too quiet. The night’s usual symphony has gone silent since I stepped into the office. Yet another bad sign. It isn’t that I don’t trust Fallon’s perception of the evidence, but my training kicking in. The hedgerider way is to double—if not triple—confirm all signs of Them before acting. Fallon made the sighting, but Cade or I will confirm.
When I’m across the parking lot, the sound of a car coming toward me from up the highway has me hustling into Alice’s room. When I’ve got the door locked, I don’t turn the lights on, but watch and wait. Sure enough, headlights from the black sedan swing into the parking lot. I sit down on the bed, next to Alice’s bags, which are right where she said they’d be. Might as well see what can be seen of the Sector goons.
